Evolution
by Jacquzy
Summary: A murder on a hot summer's day. Will reflects on his and Hannibal's relationship. Hannibal, of course, speaks entirely in metaphors. Canon divergence: Will and Hannibal are in a relationship.


It is summer. In the garden, a bee buzzes busily between the flower beds. Will shades his eyes from the sun as he watches Winston chew a stick contentedly. Sometimes he misses his other dogs, but Hannibal isn't terribly fond of animals. It is kind of him to even allow Will to keep one.

Hannibal, at present, is in the kitchen, cooking as usual. They are having a dinner party tonight. Will does not look forward to it, but he is getting better at social interaction. He doesn't think he has offended anyone too badly, lately. He tips his head back, allowing the sun to warm his face. He closes his eyes against its white hot light, and listens to the sounds of the bee.

Will is waiting for a phone call.

The bee buzzes and Winston's stick cracks loudly, sharply, like a bone. The wood is very dry. It hasn't rained in well over a week.

Behind him, the door opens. Will lowers his head, and looks back at his dog, and the garden. After the darkness of his own eyelids, the colours of the flowers and the grass seem even brighter; even more intense.

"Jack is on the phone," Hannibal calls.

Will smiles at Hannibal as he returns to the house.

Another body has been found. "It's Smith," Jack says. He sounds excited. "God, Will, I'm sure of it."

"I have to go," Will says.

"Work?" says Hannibal.

"Jack think Smith's killed again," Will says, and Hannibal's lips twitch. Will kisses them, and he thinks about Smith, and his heart races.

Will drives fast, adrenaline pumping through his body, and reaches the crime scene in under thirty minutes.

Jack jogs over from where he is conversing with Beverly to greet him. "This way," he says, and leads Will to a small copse of trees. It's dark there, and cool. A pair of feet stick out from the undergrowth. "It's Smith," says Jack, firmly, "damnit, it must be."

Will gazes down at the body. "Who is it?" he asks.

"Nicholas Chong," says Jack. "Colleague of Smith's." His voice trembles with joy. "We thought he'd got away, Will, then he goes and does this…cocky bastard. I knew it."

"He was strangled," says Will, kneeling in the nettles. "Just like Ted Manley." Chong's expression is one of twisted fear. Will pictures what he must have seen in his final moments, and breathes deeply.

"He was hit on the back of the head, strangled, then moved here," Jack says. "That's my guess. I sent Zeller and Price to Chong's house. Hopefully there'll be something there to help us out." He shifts restlessly from foot to foot. "It's gotta be Smith, it's gotta be."

It isn't, but it's as good as. It's a necessary evil, Will supposes. This isn't the first time Hannibal has killed on behalf of another and it won't be the last. He circles the body, crushing twigs and high, stiff grass beneath his feet. It truly is a work of genius. The style of the kill is exactly the same as Smith's first, right down to the positioning of the fingers on the throat. Will swallows, feeling the pressure there himself. He tries not to feel too sorry for Nicholas Chong. It is a waste of life, but without another kill they would never have been able to pin down Smith.

Will had known, though. The moment Will had met him he'd known Smith was a killer.

"He's a psychopath," he'd said to Jack. "Antisocial personality disorder. Textbook."

"That's not enough for a conviction," Jack had said, and rubbed his eyes in frustration. And they'd all watched as Smith had left the interview rooms with a smile and a cheery wave, the blood on his hands invisible, but there, nevertheless.

"Slimy bastard," Jack had muttered, and Zeller said, "He works in finance, what do you expect?"

Will breathes slowly. His back is stiff. Footsteps sound behind him – leaves crunch – and he turns to see Bev making her way towards him.

"No fingerprints," she says, by way of greeting, "our guy's using gloves."

"Just like with Manley," Jack murmurs, and she nods.

"There are some fibres on him, though," she says, "I'll take a look at them. And…" she pauses, and begins to grin. Jack's eyebrows lift in hope. "A hair," she says, triumphantly, and holds out a small plastic bag.

"It's red," Jack says, "Chong's hair is black."

A phone rings shrilly, startling them. Jack answers it.

Will tries not to stare at the body.

"Trace amounts of blood on the wall at Smith's house," Jack says, hanging up the phone abruptly.

Will's stomach unclenches. They've got him.

He returns home late in the afternoon, when the sun is low and hot and the light is golden. Hannibal is in the sitting room, reading. He looks up when Will walks in.

"We've got him," Will says. "Jack's going to arrest him. We've got him."

Hannibal smiles, just a little, vaguely amused. "Congratulations," he says.

Will hesitates. "Thank you," he manages, eventually. He waits, then he adds, "We couldn't have done it without you."

Hannibal lays his book down, eyes Will with interest from his position on the sofa. "I was merely the dogsbody. You orchestrated this."

Will is a little short of breath. "Yeah," he says, and it sounds as though the words are being thrown. "Yeah, I guess I did."

Hannibal smiles even more widely, showing his teeth. "You are a marvel, my dear Will."

They sit out in the garden, and drink wine to celebrate. Winston lies at Will's feet, his tail wagging slowly. The flowers are blood red in the evening light. Bees dart back and forth, drinking nectar, spreading pollen. Perhaps next year the whole garden will be blood red, Will thinks.

He holds Hannibal's hand. It provokes very strong and strange conflicting emotions in his chest, though he says nothing. He likes this relationship he has with Hannibal. He likes it because Hannibal seems to truly care about him. He showers him with gifts and compliments, and always asks him how his day has been, how he is feeling, and when Will is panicking or anxious or depressed, he is there to make him feel better. The sex isn't bad either. Will clings to Hannibal's caresses and kisses like they'll be torn away at any moment. He still feels like he's escaped imprisonment, half-starved. He devours affection as though making up for lost time.

Still, it is very odd, he knows, that he grasps that kind hand like a life raft when he has seen the destruction it can do. Sometimes when Hannibal holds him the images of the Ripper's victims flash behind his eyes, and he cannot tell the other man what is wrong because he fears it would anger him.

He thinks about Nicholas Chong, stunned, strangled, abandoned, and holds on even tighter to the hand that ended that life.

"Will," says Hannibal, suddenly, "what do you know about evolution?"

The question is a little out-of-the-blue; but Will is by now accustomed to Hannibal's strange pronouncements.

"A little," he says. "Why?"

A moment passes. Then Hannibal raises a hand, lazily, and points across the garden, towards the flower beds. "The bees," he says, "and those flowers over there. The bee lands on the flower to drink the nectar, and leaves with the plant's pollen covering its body. It spreads the pollen all over our garden – and further afield."

_Our _garden, thinks Will.

"Such a thing does not happen merely by chance. The bee and the flower do not exist in vacuums, separately. These organisms co-evolved to operate together, to benefit from one another, to survive. Nature is its own fiercest protector."

Will has known Hannibal long enough to recognise what he is getting at. He doesn't say it though, because that is not how he and Hannibal work. They converse in metaphors and imagery, vague allusions that somehow always hit home.

"It's impressive," he says. He doesn't look at Hannibal, but through their intertwined fingers and matching pulse points he feels the other man raise his glass to his lips, and drink. Perfectly attuned, Hannibal would say, but he wouldn't mean it in a romantic way, which suits Will just fine. He would mean it in a cells and nerves and reproductive organs sort of way – evolutionary. He would mean that he and Will had adapted and grown around one another, like old twisted trees, intertwined.

"Aren't there fish," he says, a moment later, when Hannibal has swallowed his wine and Will has digested this previous thought, let it spread throughout his body, "aren't there fish – tiny fish – that live alongside sharks? They'd normally be prey, but they attach themselves to the sharks and clean their skin. And in return the sharks don't eat them."

For a moment, Hannibal says nothing. Will turns his head to look at him.

Hannibal is smiling, gazing back at him, eyelids heavy, and Will recognizes that strangely proud expression that ought to worry him – but doesn't. "Why yes, Will," he says. "I believe there are."

He squeezes Will's hand, briefly, lovingly, almost – and Will takes a sip of wine.

Winston yawns loudly, and rolls onto his back.

And Will gazes unseeingly over the garden, and wonders which curious fish he represents.


End file.
